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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971101">The Book of Uncommon Frequencies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter'>hobbitsdoitbetter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - World War II, Antagonism, BAMF Mary Morstan, Case Fic, Dorks, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, First Meetings, Idiots in Love, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan Friendship, Mystery, Post-World War II, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:34:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1948 and the world hasn’t ended. </p><p>Unfortunately for those left behind, neither has criminality.  </p><p>In the fallout from a war which has touched everyone, Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan hunt and debunk charlatans. They particularly despise those who take advantage of grief for the dead. So when they hear of an apparently brilliant medium called Sherlock Holmes they decide to look into his claims, expecting to find another clever fake and nothing more. </p><p>As soon as they meet however, Holmes and Molly feel bound together though they have no idea why. In the midst of their professional rivalry can they put their differences aside and let passion find a way? </p><p>But of course before they can try a series of uncanny, inexplicable incidents commence...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Molly Hooper &amp; Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes &amp; Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: A Different Equation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Disclaimer: </em>This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And a big thank you to OhAine who talked me through a loooottt of the background of this piece. Enjoy!</p><hr/><p>
  <b>PROLOGUE: A DIFFERENT EQUATION</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <strong> <em> Caen, France  </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em> The early hours of June 4th, 1944 </em> </strong>
</p><p>“Mikey?” </p><p>The flash of a torch in his eyes. The sound of footsteps. Breaths taken and held. Held. Shaky. </p><p>Shaking.  </p><p>The sky is dark dark above him, pinprick stars like iron nails and Will blinks. Frowns. Peers into the darkness. There’s nothing. <em> Nothing </em> . And yet, he thought… <em> He could have sworn…  </em></p><p>“Mikey?” He whispers again. </p><p>His eyes never play tricks on him, he knows this- <em>Just as he knows he just saw his brother. </em></p><p>
  <b> <em>Just as he knows that brother can’t be here. </em> </b>
</p><p>“What do you see?” His guide, Caro, moving in the dark. Her hand on his shoulder, mouth tight with worry. Her voice is hoarse from whispering. Her son and the other French boys are crowding beside her. Scared. Skittish. Their words are hot and worried and though he speaks the language fluently Will can’t follow them. They’re speaking too fast. So much noise, no much damn noise, and still he could have sworn- He thought he saw- Gooseflesh rising on his arms and he thought he saw- </p><p><em> You were wrong, </em>he tells himself harshly. </p><p>A wry, private smile. </p><p><em> It </em> <b> <em>does </em> </b> <em> sometimes happen, old chap, even to you.  </em></p><p>“Rien,” he answers in French, wanting to reassure both Caro and the other resistance fighters. But- “Just a foolish Englishman jumping at shadows.” A small smile for Caro, which causes her to roll her eyes. “Let’s carry on.” </p><p>“As you like, Will.” </p><p>They don’t have time for this, he reminds himself pointedly, turning his back on the night and sidling over to the jeep. Judging by the look on her face, Caro agrees. <em> They don’t have time for </em> <b> <em>any</em> </b> <em> of this. </em> He has to get that damn radio working if they’re to have a snowball’s chance in Hell of making their way to Arromanches, so best he get his head back in the game. People are counting on him. </p><p>
  <em> Mikey is counting on him.  </em>
</p><p>“Lead on, Madame,” he says with a smile, falling in behind the Frenchwoman and allowing her to get into the driver’s side of the jeep. She looks suspicious but nods. Barks at one of her boys to fetch the radio and the boy complies. Will sets the device in his lap, mind focussed on the task at hand- <em> what on Earth happened to the thing?- </em>and as he does so their strange little band peel off into the night- </p><p>Stars above. Taut breathing all around. Will tells himself he was mistaken. </p><hr/><p>A hundred miles away and counting lies the proof that he was not. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One: Shrapnel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Disclaimer: </em> This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Suggested by a ficlet of mine of tumblr, hope you enjoy. And thanks again for all her help to OhAine. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fFg3DIFxhM&amp;list=OLAK5uy_nhemQQdlOlMvNyS2j9_jQPVYbCVs6JDWU">Soundtrack</a></p><hr/><p>
  <b>CHAPTER ONE: SHRAPNEL</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <strong> <em> London, Mayfair </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em> The House of The Right Honourable Lady Imogene Smallwood  </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em> October 21st, 1948 </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em> Midnight  </em> </strong>
</p><p>Molly had to hand it to him: this Holmes fellow was good. </p><p>So good, in fact, that she already knows she will take great pleasure in working out his tricks. All of them. Just as soon as she gets back to her office and debriefs Lord Stamford. </p><p>As if reading her thoughts, her friend Mary Morstan meets her eyes and grins. </p><p>As well she might, Molly muses: The medium, stern of brow and dashing of dinner jacket, is really rather handsome. He is also really rather convincing- Not that Molly expected anything less. The stories about him are, after all, multifarious, and each one fawns over his expertise. His accuracy. His damn <em> honesty </em>. </p><p><em> As if there were any such thing, </em> Molly muses <em> , as an </em> <b> <em>honest</em> </b> <em> charlatan</em>. </p><p>Watching him in the flesh however, Molly suspects that his current success has less to do with any apparent otherworldly abilities, and more to do with the attractive figure he cuts. <em> It’s not like Molly blames her fellow women for it: handsome men- men in general- are a rarity in these post war days. </em>And as if to underscore her point, Holmes leans forward to take Lady Smallwood’s hand. Judging by the expressions on her fellow seance-goers’ faces many of the women envy their hostess this. With infinite gentleness he brings that scarred, useless limb to his chest, pressing Lady Smallwood’s knuckles against his heart and closing his eyes. Furrowing his brow. </p><p>Thus arrayed, he cuts rather the romantic figure. </p><p>Beside her, very softly, Molly hears her friend Mary snort. </p><p>She shoots her a warning look which Mary disregards with her usual cheerfulness. </p><p>The room about them is holding their breath now as Homes’ deep, velvety baritone punctures the gloom. “Lord Smallwood: are you with us?” he intones. The medium frowns, cocking his head as if straining to hear something. “Come forth and speak, we beg you... Your wife is here with me and bids me speak your words...”</p><p>No sooner has this piece of cod-medieval nonsense left his mouth than Holmes collapses, plummeting floor ward like a dead weight. </p><p>He does not, Molly notes, appear to be breathing. Or bleeding. </p><p>She’s not sure either is a relief. </p><p>Whilst she is used to such chicanery in his breed Molly notes that the other seance-goers are shooting one another alarmed looks. One appears to be about to accost Holmes and check what the devil is wrong with him, something for which she doubts the medium will thank him- </p><p>It is at exactly this moment that every light in the sitting room goes out. </p><p>There are mutters. Harrumphs. Someone lights a match and one of Lady Smallwood’s servants hurries over to this brave soul with a candle- One which, judging by the speed of its delivery, was apparently already at hand. </p><p>Mary shoots Molly a loaded look: the lights are a nice touch, and not one easily pulled off. <em> Could it be possible that Lady Smallwood is acting in concert with her handsome young protégé?  </em></p><p>“Too early to be certain,” Molly murmurs under her breath- Mary nods- before returning her attention to Holmes. He hasn’t moved, and whilst fainting like a maiden with the vapours is rather au currente with mediums Molly must admit he has managed his swoon with remarkable panache. Of course, it’s not like he hasn’t had the practice, Molly muses darkly. </p><p>
  <em> He’s been pulling this particular con all over Mayfair.  </em>
</p><p>Nevertheless as the moments of his unconsciousness play out it occurs to both Molly and Mary that the handsome charlatan may not merely play-acting. <em> He still isn’t breathing- In fact, his lips are rapidly turning blue. </em>Whilst neither woman could fault his performance- the man is a born actor- this is not part of his usual repertoire and both Mary and Molly know it- </p><p>Molly is about to mutter something to that effect, the better to encourage Holmes to break character and glower at her, when the first of the raps start sounding from beneath the floorboards at his back. </p><p>These are followed by hisses, scratches and other, vaguely surprising ephemera, all appeared to originate from the floor beneath them. </p><p>Through it all Holmes neither moves nor breathes, the sounds growing louder and louder the longer he is unconscious- </p><p>There’s a hiss. A cough. His back arches like a bow. </p><p>Holmes gasps, a ragged, painful sound and then collapses back onto the floor, shoulders shaking and hacking. Body trembling and covered in sweat. Mary and Molly exchange looks, surprised at this sudden break from the elegant, dapper routine Holmes normally uses during his seances- </p><p>And that’s when they see the handful of blood-spattered pennies that Holmes has apparently coughed up. </p><p>“Bugger,” he mutters roughly as he stares at the coins. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two: Three from Thirty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Disclaimer: </em>This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely OhAine. And thank you to devilgrrl, MizJoely, OhAine,MetricJenn, jutedem, Evie89, CinemaScope08, Juldooz, theconsultingstrangevidder and everyone who has read and/or reviewed: you make this so much easier. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>CHAPTER TWO: THREE FROM THIRTY</b>
</p>
<hr/><p>Will stares at the coins for a moment, trying to fathom how they got there. </p><p>Two silver, one brass, they glint dully in the candle light, the image of King George staring impassively up at him as he heaves himself onto his knees. Tries to calm his breathing. </p><p>The image of His Majesty’s profile reminds him, rather startlingly, of his late brother Mycroft. </p><p>Before he is able to come to any sort of conclusion about why that might be however, Will vomits, spraying both himself and Lady Smallwood’s meticulously polished wooden floor with the detritus of his last meal. </p><p>The smell is utterly disgusting. </p><p>Horrified, his well-heeled marks skitter back, terribly worried about getting any bodily refuse onto their perfect, patent leather shoes and if it were any other time Will would snigger to himself, amused by how these pampered, rabbit-like creatures fancied they’d gotten their country through a war- </p><p>“Fetch water.” </p><p>The voice is soft, calm. Female. <em> Ah, </em> he thinks, <em> the termagant that Stamford and his cronies sent to watch him. </em>Hauling his head up Will sees she and her friend wade elegantly around the small pool of vomit at his knees, the blonde handing him a glass of water, the brunette suspiciously eyeing the coins he coughed up. </p><p>With the very tip of her boot she pokes them, cocking her head to read their inscriptions as she works them out of the vomit and onto the carpet. </p><p><em> The look of horror on the assembled guests’ faces at this is really rather amusing </em>. </p><p>“Drink,” the blonde tells him in a light, friendly voice and to Will’s surprise he finds himself nodding. He should probably be watching her friend and what she’s doing with those coins but he nevertheless takes the glass of water from her hand and sips, allowing her to check him over. Her movements have the ease and speed of someone who knows what they’re doing, not one of the many amateur nurses that the war (and in particular The Blitz) foisted upon London.</p><p> “You appear to still be in one piece,” the woman says lightly. “I’m Mary, by the way.”</p><p>“Sherlock,” Will coughs. He takes another sip of water, trying to wash the abominable taste from his mouth. A look at her. His shirt is starting to stink in earnest. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you?” </p><p>Mary smiles wryly. “We knew your name before we got here,” she acknowledges. She lifts her chin, indicating her companion. “Molly there says it’s the most ridiculous appellation she’s ever heard.” Another snort. “And she was once engaged to a man called Tristram, you know.” </p><p>Will laughs. “Then truly, the lady knows of what she speaks.” He cocks an eyebrow at Mary. Decides to try a little fishing. After all, the coins (and his blackout just before they appeared) are not something with which anyone around him can help: if left to their own devices then this crowd would probably try to claim that he manifested them from the bloody Spirit Realm or some such hogwash. More likely, Will suspects that the blackout is the result of his… indulgences over the weekend.<em> Indulgences which, if he’s being honest, have not entirely left his system. </em> But this Mary- and her little harridan friend- could make much mischief with such an admission and his rent is due this week. So-</p><p>“Your thoughts?” He asks, indicating the small pool of vomit- vomit which Lady Smallwood is refusing to let the butler clean up despite the smell. Apparently she thinks there might be ectoplasm in it.</p><p>
  <em> Not for the first time, Will reflects on the fact that he has surrounded himself with idiots.  </em>
</p><p>Mary eyes him. “What do you think, Molly?” She calls to her friend. “Mr Holmes here wants to know our opinion on his… turn tonight.” </p><p>Molly gives a snort, and Will swears he hears her mutter under her breath that <em> turn is right. </em>However- “This is new,” Molly says, indicating the coins. “You have previously manifested,” her lip curls slightly at the word and Will can’t help but smirk at her- “nothing more than voices or writing. Occasionally tapping, but that was very early in your career. </p><p>All of these phenomena might be attributed to a talent for performance- You were a concert violinist before the war, were you not, Mr. Holmes?” </p><p>Molly turns those fine, dark eyes of hers- eyes which Will had noted as soon as he entered the seance tonight- and fixes him with a stare. Quite without the aid of the Spirit Realm, she manages to drop the temperatures several degrees. <em> Maybe she’s a witch as well as a harridan </em>. “Indeed, as I understand it,” she continues, “you have found work as an actor in the past, as well as a mesmerist-“ </p><p>“You’ve done your research,” Will says evenly, his eyes challenging. </p><p>It doesn’t faze Molly but then he doubted it would and for some unaccountable reason, he finds this rather… engaging. </p><p>
  <em> Euri always said he was a peculiar creature.  </em>
</p><p>“I always do my research,” Molly replies coolly. “As, I suspect, do you.” And she reaches down and picks up the coins, briskly dunking them in the punch bowl to her left and quickly washing them as clear as the red liquid can make them. </p><p>Will finds himself rather pleased with her obvious lack of squeamishness.</p><p> “So perhaps you can explain,” she continues, “what the supposed significance of Indian coins might be to your hostess tonight?” </p><p>And she holds out the coins to show him. They consist of two single rupees and a larger brass mohur, by the look of it rather a lot older than its companions. None of them are particularly valuable so Will is quite pleased to be able to say the next. </p><p>“I can tell you, hand on heart,” he says with mock gravitas, “that I haven’t the foggiest.” Again he finds himself smirking. “Perhaps you should show them to our hostess and ask her opinion, hmm?” </p><p>And he lets his smile widen. Turn angelic. Molly seems reluctant to do so- since allowing Lady Smallwood to attach significance to them is merely playing into Will’s hands- but nevertheless she holds them out. Shows them to Lady Smallwood. </p><p>“Well?” She asks. “Do these mean anything to you, Ma’ame?” </p><p>With ridiculous carefulness Lady Smallwood takes the coins from her. Examines them gingerly. She touches them so lightly, a look of such wonder on her face, that for the first time in a long time Will feels a pang of guilt at what he does for a living. Ever since her husband’s death the good Marquise has been a true believer in the cause. The loss of her son at Dunkirk has only strengthened that credence. </p><p>As he always does when such thoughts appear, Will forces them fiercely away. </p><p>“No,” the good lady is saying. “I can’t say they do mean anything to me- My family had little enough to do with India, as you know.” She smiles benevolently at Molly. “Africa, particularly Rhodesia, that was where we were stationed when I was a girl.” Her smile widens. “Beautiful place, you know. Like the Garden of Eden...” </p><p>To Will’s surprise he sees the lines around Mary’s eyes harden, a darkness moving through them at the words. As soon as she catches him watching her the blonde forces her face to relax, however. To smile. Her eyes twinkle, and if he hadn’t just seen her reaction Will wouldn't have believed her capable of such a fierce expression. </p><p>It has the look of something she has learned with practice and just as with her friend, Will finds himself intrigued. </p><p>“So these coins mean nothing to you?” Molly is saying. </p><p>She sounds frustrated. </p><p>“No.” Last Smallwood smiles again. “Of course, I can have my solicitor check into the family accounts but as far as I know, I have no ties to India.” Again she examines the coins. “So pretty,” she coos before handing the coins back to Molly and smiling widely at Will. </p><p>The look of frustration on the younger woman’s face is, for Will, very amusing. </p><p>“But you must be so uncomfortable, Mr. Holmes,” Lady Smallwood says then. “Please, your clothes from your last stay with us are still here: you simply must go upstairs and change into something fresh. </p><p>Then we can continue with the evening.” </p><p>With a wry, faux-apologetic smile Will rises. Inclines his head to both Mary and Molly. “My mistress’ voice calls, I’m afraid,” he says, hand on heart. </p><p>He makes sure to turn his body so that only the two women can see the gesture. </p><p>Molly notices. “One must provide the service one is paid for,” She says tartly, something to which Will merely inclines his head. </p><p>“Something like that,” he says. With a flirtatious smile he takes Mary’s hand and kisses it. “Worry not,” he says, “I assure you I will be back shortly.” A twinkling smile. “I never leave an audience wanting, I assure you.” </p><p>And then he makes his escape, his heart skipping queerly as he leaves. </p><p>He swears he can feel Molly’s eyes on his back all the way out the room. </p><p>For a moment he wonders again how those damn coins got in his stomach- <em> Just how much had he taken last night?- </em>but even as he wonders the thought slithers away. Retreats. </p><p>Were he the man he once was, this would worry him. </p>
<hr/><p>“Well,” says Mary. </p><p>“Well,” says Molly. A snort. “We know he’s an inveterate flirt, if nothing else.” </p><p>Mary laughs. “So I gather- though I doubt it’s <em> me </em> he wishes to flirt with.” At her friend’s amusingly alarmed look Mary shakes her head. “Oh no, darling,” she says. “Don’t be missish: he might have flirted with me but it was you he couldn’t drag his eyes from.” </p><p>“Poppycock,” Molly growls. </p><p>It is rather amusing to see someone so small <em> growl.  </em></p><p>“If you say so,” Mary smiles. </p><p>She knows her grin is infuriating. </p><p>If Molly wishes to be drawn on the subject of Mr. Sherlock Holmes however she gives no indication- </p><p>No, her eyes are on the coins in her hand, her mind far away. </p><p><em> Holmes doesn’t strike her as the sort to miscalculate like that, </em> she thinks. <em> He’s irritating but he’s not </em> <b> <em>stupid</em> </b> <em> .  </em></p><p>Which begs the question: what the devil was he doing tonight? And why on earth would he have brought forth these coins if he didn’t mean to use them to con someone? </p><p>From far away and long ago she hears a voice whisper: <em> That is why you’re here, my darling. </em>Closing her fingers over the coins Molly straightens up. Nods to herself. </p><p><em> The game, </em> she thinks, <em> is on.  </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Three: Toil, Trouble, Other</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And a big thank you to OhAine, yet again, who beta read this chapter. And thank you to all who have read, commented and enjoyed. Onwards!</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>TOIL, TROUBLE, OTHER</b>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Will wakes up the next morning with no idea how he got home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That this is not a singular occurrence- that it is not even a particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>remarkable</span>
  </em>
  <span> occurrence- is not something on which he feels it wise to dwell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless he does dwell on it, shivering in his narrow cot and sweating like a pig in the afternoon heat. He does dwell on it as he hauls himself out of bed (finally) and stumbles over to his sink. Taps on, stopper in, he fills the basin up and then plunges his face in. Eyes closed. Ears closed. The water snakes up his nose, presses against his tightly-shut lips until he has to breathe-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enough. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightens up, rakes his hair off his face. His gaze is bleary as he stares into the mirror. The face which looks back at him is ghastly, pale and white and streaked with sweat. The circles under his eyes look like bruises- Or at least they would, were he not so familiar with the real thing. His hands are shaking, there against the taps.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Christ, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I feel dire. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not like it’s the first time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a voice which might be Eurus snickers inside him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And, as usual, it’s self-inflicted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock rolls his eyes at the accusation. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I may be the family idiot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but at least I have more than one insult at my disposal, Euri. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time he saw his sister flashes before his eyes and he pushes the thought viciously away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach roils then, treacherous with the memory of fullness from Lady Smallwood’s supper last night, when for so long he has lived on porridge and jam and butter and sheer, bloody-minded obstinacy. Again he wonders how he got home, again nothing comes to him. It feels like there’s a hole inside his mind, and every time he tries to concentrate on it it slithers away. Last night- all of last night- seems dreamlike. Unreal. The details- and there are few- flutter through his mind but they won’t stick. The stench of vomit. People staring at him. A beautiful, fierce pair of bright brown eyes- </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
  <b>
    <em>Enough. </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuffles over to the gas then and sets it to heat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He just needs a cup of tea and everything will settle down. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As he does so he hears footsteps on the stairs, wonders who might be thundering up to Hudson’s den of iniquity at this ungodly hour, but the sounds stop at his door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That is… unexpected. </span>
  </em>
  <span>High heels click and clack against the bare spot worn in the carpet; he hears feminine whispers- irritated, conspiratorial- and then a sharp, impatient rap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Holmes.” The voice is warm, coaxing. Will stares stupidly at the door, strangely astonished that these interlopers had the audacity to knock.  “Mr. Holmes, my name is Mary Morstan-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Open the door.” The second voice is also female, terse. It seems oddly familiar but it takes Will a moment to place it. The termagant from last night- what was her name? Ah yes, Molly. Molly Hooper. Stamford’s golden girl turned brown-eyed bloodhound, fresh from the Rationalist Society. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh joy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks darkly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And here this day was already </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>so </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>delightful. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment he is tempted to feign either deafness or absence but he balks at such cowardice. Rather, with an irritated growl he thumps over to the door and yanks the door open, just as the termagant is raising that irritatingly little fist of hers to knock again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops, blinks, hand hanging in mid air. Brown eyes meet his and then narrow, red swarming at her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is at this moment that Will realises he’s not wearing any proper clothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clad in naught up long john bottoms and socks, his hair in disarray, he must be quite the sight and at this mortifying thought his own face reddens. Indecency in front of a strange woman is unspeakably gauche, even for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it,” he mutters and then, realising that his swearing is adding insult to injury, he drops his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says. “I, I need to find some-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clothing?” Mary Morstan says brightly, smiling and stepping smoothly past him into his flat. She has the peremptory air of one who has done this many times before.  “There’s no need for that: Both Molly and I are familiar with the sight of the sterner sex, aren’t we, Molly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever the truth of this blithe assertion, Hooper says nothing, her lips pursed and her face red even as she stares at Will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself fighting the twin urges to both hide and preen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hooper clears her throat. Drops her gaze. “We, ahem, we are sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Holmes,” she says, her tone a good deal more polite than Will has yet heard it. Will nods dumbly, moving back to invite her into his flat though that is quite the last thing he wants her to do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clearly, he really is an idiot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nevertheless she steps inside, not nearly so insouciant as her friend. She doesn’t look around, doesn’t touch anything. Her friend has no such reservations, openly examining his abode. Will isn’t sure whether he finds it alarming or enchanting. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He suspects that this is a common reaction to Mary Morstan. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were making tea?” Morstan says brightly, gesturing to the boiling kettle. “Molly and I would love some.” She scoots around him, perches delicately on his bed. “Once you dress, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes a shooing motion. “Off you pop, there’s a good man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Thoroughly wrong-footed now, Will grabs a handful of clothes from the floor and without thinking darts out of the flat and onto the landing. He’s halfway dressed before he realises that this is probably not the best place to be naked, but by that point the damage is done. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s also not like he’s the first man to get dressed in a hurry on one of Martha Hudson’s landings. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pushing his braces up onto his shoulders, he drags his hands through his hair, rueing the return of its natural curl, and steps back inside the flat. Hooper is busy cleaning his cups in the sink, her face a great deal less pleased than it was when encountering either vomit or ectoplasm last  night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels oddly insulted at the realisation. Also a tiny bit relieved that he can remember that detail, but mainly insulted.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After all, it’s not like he invited her bloody in</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Morstan says, gaze raking over him. “I’m not saying you look better, but that is an improvement.” She grins brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls the kettle off the hob. Hooper is still frowning mightily, trying to clean the cups. Eventually she sighs, dropping them into the sink and turning to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might you have any bleach?” she asks. “I fear for the health of all concerned, should we drink from these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Will feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoroughly</span>
  </em>
  <span> insulted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you dislike my crockery so much,” he says, “then you can buy me breakfast.” He cocks an eyebrow, glowering down at Hooper. Morstan chortles and Hooper rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is, however, the ghost of a smile on her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wil refuses to acknowledge how attractive he finds it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll need shoes and socks if you want to be seen in public,” Hooper says with asperity. “I noticed that there’s a tea-shop downstairs: I assume it’s suitable for breakfast?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speedy’s?” Will grins. “It’s a cover for a gambling ring, if you must know. The tea is fine, however.” He shrugs. “I make no promises about the coffee, though-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s London,” Morstan says dryly, “the coffee will be terrible.” She shoots Hooper an unreadable look and her friend shrugs, looking away. Both women pick up their gloves, purses and coats. The air between them has altered subtly and Will is not sure why.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How intriguing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can wait outside while you get fully dressed,” Hooper says. “Try to climb out of the window to escape and I’ll set Mary on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morstan grins, waggling her eyebrows, and Will snorts. “Truly, a fate worse than death,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have no idea,” Morstan retorts. She opens the front door, gestures to her friend and Hooper slips onto the landing. “We’ll see you downstairs,” she says, following. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods, watching Hooper glide like a ghost down the stairs, Morstan at her heels. Neither woman looks back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door closes with a click behind them, but the thought of escape doesn’t occur to him once. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<span>He appears ten minutes later, looking suitably… sober. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s as much praise as Molly is willing to give him, after that display upstairs. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless Holmes sails into the teashop with a beatific smile. His hair is brushed. His clothes are now impeccable. Crisp white shirt, greyish green pullover and a tweed jacket. Polished shoes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He looks disconcertingly harmless, dressed like this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods to the old man behind the counter and within moments a pot of tea appears at his elbow, along with sugar and milk. He inclines his head slightly, smiling, and Molly is tempted to roll her eyes. Mr. Holmes strikes her as the kind of man for whom such deference is entirely expected, and never questioned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doubtless glides through his life as if it were his due, entirely unaware that such bounty is not enjoyed by all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subtly, Mary kicks her under the table, her expression telling Molly that she has guessed where her mind has taken her. Though it was nowhere near him, Holmes narrows his eyes as if he saw it, and that just irritates Molly more.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A charlatan shouldn’t be both handsome and observant. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat, as Molly reminds herself that she is far too old to try sticking her tongue out at Mary. Or at Holmes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence stretches out, each of them angling to make sure one of the other two breaks it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dratted man smiles gamely, sipping his tea with a jaunty lifting of his pinkie finger. It makes Molly want to roll her eyes again, but like the adult she is, she resists. Mary smiles, clears her throat: when they first began doing this Molly had been the designated charmer, stammering and sweet as she encouraged their marks to make mistakes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mousy little Molly Hooper, friend to all, docile to her core: it had worked like a dream.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Once they had watched Holmes in action however, it had been decided that with him this role would fall to Mary, since she was a great deal more likely to be able to charm an ego like Holmes’. Considering her opinion of the man and what he does, Molly had not, at the time, found that a hardship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An image of him upstairs, barely dressed, flashes through her head and she pushes it irritably away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he announces, stapling his fingers in front of his lips. “To what do I owe this pleasure, ladies?”His eyes appear very blue in the palid whiteness of his face, and despite the evenness of his voice, his breathing is slightly hitched. Shallow. Odd, since there was no sign of it upstairs. He tosses a flirtatious grin at Mary. “You could, if you wished to call on me, have arranged things last night...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary snorts. “Hardly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At his mock-wounded expression she grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are respectable women, Mr. Holmes,” Molly interrupts. For some reason, the idea of watching Mary flirt with Holmes does not appeal. “We don’t make a habit of barging into the homes of unmarried men-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what are you doing here?” And he brings those blue, blue eyes to rest on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just for a moment, Molly’s tempted to shiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless, she glances carefully at Mary. Neither she nor her friend hold any doubts about Holmes’ intelligence; that will make this matter rather more difficult to manage than its predecessors. “Mary wished to check on you,” Molly says, making sure to stumble over the words just enough to add an element of doubt to them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let Holmes think her a clumsy liar, it would be telling to see what he did with the notion.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “After your little stunt last night, you might have torn the lining of your throat, or damaged your vocal chords-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What stunt last night?” The words slip easily out and Molly sees the moment he regrets them. It’s a flash of emotion, quicksilver and bright in the blueness of his eyes. As quickly as he gave himself away he settles back though, a smile moving onto his face as he tries to come up with some unobtrusive way to cover his slip, but it doesn’t work on Molly. Nor on Mary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So do you remember anything from last night?” Mary says sweetly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is more by way of a statement than a question and Molly is reminded why she enjoys working with Mary so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes opens his mouth, obviously about to lie, and then shuts it with an inauspicious snap. His  expression turns sulky- Sulky, and underneath that, guarded. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Childishness masking worry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Molly thinks, finding herself intrigued. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Apparently he’s decided to try dancing  around she and Mary the way he dances around his marks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alas,” he’s saying, “should you be here to call me out for some caddish behaviour or other, I’m afraid I cannot help you.” He shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but it doesn’t quite land. “Whatever it is that I did,” he says, “you shall simply have to blame it on the spirits…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gordons, or Seagers?” Molly asks. “Since I could smell both on your clothes upstairs.” She shoots him a sharp smile and this time his pout is genuine. “Gin has such a recognisable odour,” she adds, just to devil him. He grimaces and, much to her surprise, for a moment his eyes meet hers before flicking away. He looks almost… embarrassed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, she represses the urge to shiver. </span>
</p><p><span>Rather than engage with </span><em><span>that, </span></em><span>however,</span> <span>she elects to take the initiative. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Are you saying that you don’t remember anything from last night, Mr. Holmes?” she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns. “Of course not.” Molly shoots him a sceptical eyebrow. “I was engaged by Lady Smallwood,” he says. “She is one of my most valued patrons, so of course I appeared. I gave a reading for the table and then I…” He stops, brows drawn together. Eyes blank. It’s obvious he’s trying to recall what happened and again Molly hears that hollowness in his breathing. His hand moves, almost imperceptibly, fingers beating out some pattern on the tablecloth. It looks almost like he’s fingering a violin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all you remember?” Mary prompts gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks at her, coming back to himself. “Yes,” he snaps. “I mean, no, I…” Again his gaze is drawn to Molly. Again he frowns, confusion in his eyes. He reaches out to take her hand and she instinctively pulls back, not wanting to be demeaned by whatever sideshow he’s decided to enact for her- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t move fast enough, however, for he manages to grab her hand, her small fingers clenched tightly in his. She feels the callousness of his fingers, his palms. The heat of them.  Feels their tremor, as if his body is exerting itself mightily though he’s merely sitting across from her. He coughs, his shoulders shaking, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. No, he closes his eyes, screwing them tightly shut, and his grip on her tightens as he coughs again, and again, the breath rattling in his chest…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, when he coughs up coins there’s blood spattered across the metal. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Four: Black Coffee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely OhAine, so all mistakes still are mine (there are a lot less of them, though). Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed: Enjoy!</p><hr/><p>
  <b>CHAPTER FOUR: BLACK COFFEE</b>
</p><hr/><p>
  <em> He can’t breathe.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Try as he might, Will can’t breathe.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heat around him, utter darkness. The sort of darkness wherein one cannot be entirely sure whether one’s eyes are open or closed. The air is hot, close… It stinks of his own sweat and the decay of bodies and- the thought is odd- of the coming of a summer storm.  </em>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Where in the name of bloody hell is he?!</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em> Nowhere, a voice whispers softly.  </em>
</p><p><em> You are nowhere. You are nothing… </em> <b> <em>Just as you were always meant to be</em> </b> <em> nothing…  </em></p><p>
  <em> Will’s heart is hammering in his chest, every cell in his body screaming at him to move, to run- Panic, he knows he’s panicking and a churn of self-loathing goes through him at the notion. He hears Mycroft’s voice from long ago: “We Holmeses do not panic.” He reaches out blindly and stone meets his knuckles. Tears at them. He can feel earth at his shoulder blades, something harder at his bent knees and now he knows, now he knows he’s somewhere enclosed, somewhere terrible, somewhere forgotten-  </em>
</p><p>“Mr. Holmes?” </p><p>The voice is female… Nearly familiar…<em> It can’t be real though </em>, he tells himself it can’t be real… </p><p>“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?” Another female voice, authoritative this time. He hears the first voice swearing, has a feeling of being moved upright. “Fetch water,” the second voice says, “Molly, hold him down, he mustn’t be allowed to hurt himself…  It seems to be some sort of attack, epilepsy, maybe..?” Will feels himself shaken. “Mr. Holmes, do you suffer from epilepsy?” </p><p>Will can’t answer.  </p><p>Two small, strong hands wrap around his wrists then and, as if some sort of key is turned in a lock, air floods into his system. </p><p>Will can open his eyes. Will can breathe. Will can be absolutely mortified. </p><p><em> So much, </em> he thinks, <em> for my  ancestors’ famed stiff upper lip.  </em></p><p>Hooper is right in front of him, her breath in his face, her eyes fierce and worried, and that does nothing to temper his mood. “Can you hear me?” She asks him quietly and he nods. She has put her hand to his cheek, tilting his face up to meet hers, peering into his eyes intently. This close he can count her freckles, her lashes. The tiniest flecks of copper in her eyes. </p><p>They’re beautiful. </p><p>At the thought he coughs again before waving her away, irritated at being fussed over. He tries to stand but finds he can’t; his body feels like he’s run a bloody marathon and there is blood speckled across his pullover. His shirt. The knuckles of Hooper’s hands. It occurs to him- in an absent sort of way- to wonder if the blood is his. </p><p>As quickly as he thinks it, the thought slithers away.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Hooper is saying, “It’s alright, we have you…” </p><p>The words are the most asinine he could conjure but he still grins at her wolfishly. “You can have me any way you want, darling,” he croaks.  The flirtation has its desired effect: Hooper narrows her eyes, calls him a pillock and steps away. In fact, she stalks all the way over to the corner of the tea shop, the better to glower at him from her perch. </p><p>The hand which she had placed at his cheek she now clasps tightly into a fist. </p><p>Despite him having accomplished his mission, Will cannot help but note that he feels the loss of her nearness rather more than might be expected. He had found it oddly… soothing, though he wouldn’t admit that to a soul. He opens his mouth- to apologise? To make another pass? He genuinely has no idea- but nothing comes out. As with so much today, it occurs to him that it should worry him, but the import of the thought seems rather far away. </p><p>Hooper glowers at him some more, rather alarmingly for one so small and doll-like. </p><p>Will tells himself that he doesn’t find it engaging but he knows he does, freakish creature that he is. </p><p>“Drink.” Morstan brings a glass of water to his lips then, before barking something quick and sharp to the old man from behind the counter. It sounds like Italian. The old man replies in the same tongue and then bustles off, returning within moments with a jug of water and Morstan’s bag, from the depths of which she withdraws a stethoscope. She makes to put it against the bare skin beneath his shirt and Will manoeuvres away. </p><p>“No.” </p><p>He is shocked at how hoarse his voice sounds.  </p><p>“Yes.” Morstan cocks an eyebrow at him and he cocks one right back. Glares. </p><p><em> He is not going to be ordered around by anyone, and certainly not </em> <b> <em>her</em> </b> <em> . </em> </p><p>“Mr. Holmes,” Morstan says flatly, “while you may be able to put Molly off with your nonsense, pray do not assume that such a thing will work on me: In fact, I suspect that we would both find even the attempt embarrassing.” </p><p>Will opens his mouth to correct her and she speaks over him with nary a pause. </p><p>“I am a doctor,” she continues, severely. “You have just had what I can only describe as a turn, and you have coughed up three more inanimate objects in my presence: You are clearly in need of medical attention, even if you are too stubborn to admit it. So you will sit still, you will shut up and you will let me help you. Is that clear?” </p><p>And she folds her arms across her chest. Stares him down. </p><p>For a moment Will is tempted to dig his heels in, but then- “Fine.” Holding her eye he makes a show of pulling his jumper off and slowly opening the first four buttons of his shirt. Morstan appears amused, Hooper appears disgusted. “Skill like that,” Morstan drawls, “and I fail to see why you need to make a living defrauding grieving families. </p><p>“I’m sure there’s some fine establishment in Soho that would have you.” </p><p>Will scowls, annoyed that he can’t seem to get to her the way he can get to her lovely friend. He is also, to his surprise, irritated at being called a fraud. <em> It’s not like he’s ever believed himself anything else </em>. “I do not defraud anyone,” he says airily instead, allowing her to press the coolness of the stethoscope to his chest. She motions to him to breathe in and he does, albeit reluctantly. “If anything,” he continues, “I provide a service-“</p><p>“You provide a lie.” The words are flat, and they come from Hooper. When he looks at her she appears to be glaring at him through a thick wall of annoyance, something shuttered and private in her eyes. It is an expression which Will has seen many times since the end of the war. </p><p>It is an expression which Will tells himself he would never be foolish enough to wear. </p><p><em> This, he knows deep down, is the first real untruth he’s uttered today. </em> </p><p>“I’m no more of a lie than the local vicar,” he quips then, just to see what effect it will have. He half expects a lecture on the importance of religion and his own impiety but Hooper merely rolls her eyes. </p><p>“You and your ilk really need to get a better excuse,” she says dryly. “If I hear that one one more time, I swear I shall thump the idiot who says it.” </p><p>Will shrugs. <em> He’s tempted to point out that he wouldn’t mind being thumped by someone so pretty as her, but he wisely keeps the thought to himself. </em> “I have no other excuse,” he says instead. “I see no need for another excuse: People want answers. They want to believe that their loved ones are in a better place. I provide that.” </p><p>Morstan raises her eyebrows. “Then why charge?” She smiles. “Since this is such a charitable endeavour?” She motions with her hand again, telling him to breathe. Will complies, manages even to get back some of his bravado. She takes the stethoscope from his chest and he looks at her from beneath his brows, exactly as Euri had taught him to do when they were children. </p><p><em> Clearly, he will need all the many weapons at his disposal in dealing with Miss Mary Morstan </em>. </p><p>“I charge,” he says, “because the service I provide is worth it.” Both women give snorts of disbelief. “Also, I have to eat,” he points out sensibly. “Even you must acknowledge that.” He gestures to himself, half mockingly. “All of this costs money, ladies...”</p><p>This time he’s <em>certain</em> he hears Hooper swear. </p><p>“If self betterment were your aim,” Morstan says, taking his wrist and counting his pulse, “then I dare say you would take better care of yourself than you do.” She jerks her chin upwards, indicating the flat above. “Your rooms are filthy and damp. You’re skin and bones, and you drink far more than a healthy man should. </p><p>“If you’re suggesting that your career is merely a means to take care of yourself then you’re doing a damn shoddy job of it, Mr. Holmes.” She pauses, lets go of his wrist. Picks up the glass of water and hands it to him again. </p><p>Making a show of being docile, Will sips. </p><p>Hooper rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Refers to him, once again, as a pillock, before stalking over to the tea shop owner and requesting a fresh pot of tea, something which the older man dutifully bustles off to provide. That done she comes back to their table. Places three small objects upon it. Will sees three old, blood-spattered pennies, emblazoned with the words <em> Edward VIII </em> and the profile of a monarch he doesn’t recognise. </p><p>“How peculiar,” he says, peering at them. Edward VIII hadn’t been on the throne long enough to have coins minted in his honour, something which had saved the British race from the equally dubious prospect of Wallace Simpson appearing on the five pound note. “Where did you find these?” </p><p>The women exchange looks. “From you,” Hooper says. Head cocked to the side, frowning, she reminds Will rather of a bird of prey. An extremely little, extremely pretty bird of prey. “You coughed them up: don’t you remember?” </p><p>“Don’t be preposterous.” Will looks from her, to the coins, and then back to her again. “What on Earth are you blathering about, woman?” He snaps. “Are you suggesting that I, that I..?” Even as he speaks though, something trickles through his mind, a memory of hacking coughs. Something, something in his throat, his mouth- his throat working, gagging- </p><p>
  <b> <em>How the Hell had those gotten there? </em> </b>
</p><p>He begins coughing again. Blood once more speckles against his shirt and he starts. The last thing he needs- the last thing he<em> wants </em>- is influenza, but if he’s coughing up blood… “Christ,” he hacks out, his heart rate beginning to climb again- </p><p>“Drink.” </p><p>This time it’s Hooper who hands him the glass. Hooper who peers at him as he sips it. “Breathe,” she says softly, and for once he does as he’s told. She goes to move closer and Will jerks away- “It’s alright,” she says softly, “it’s alright, you’re not going to give me anything, Holmes.” She presses her hand to his forehead, shoots Morstan a look. The other woman nods. Moves closer. Hooper, quite without her seeming to realise it, has started to stroke circles against his back. </p><p>Will doesn’t want to find it nearly as soothing as he does. </p><p>“You don’t appear to have anything in your lungs, Mr. Holmes,” Morstan is saying. “And if you were sick, I rather think you wouldn’t be so surprised at coughing up blood.” She shakes her head. Looks at him, hard. “One of the main problems with your profession, health wise, is regurgitating objects. It causes small abrasions to the chest and throat which can become infected, or simply remain painful.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Were you unaware of these possible side effects before you elected to introduce this new element to your act?” </p><p>And she gestures to the coins. </p><p>It occurs to Will that he really should make a go of pretending to believe in his so-called abilities, but he rather likes that neither Miss Morstan nor Miss Hooper believe he has any. It makes things so much more straightforward and enjoyable in dealing with them. Besides, he is rather more interested in what they just said- “These came from inside me?” He asks. </p><p>Morstan nods. </p><p>Will frowns. “How can you be sure?” </p><p>
  <em> In his head he can imagine Mikey rolling his eyes and asking for patience: That’s the question you hit on, brother mine?  </em>
</p><p>As always, he wills the thought away. </p><p>Besides, Hooper is speaking. “Because I saw it,” she’s saying. “Rather like last night, actually: there was no sleight of hand. They definitely came from within you.” Odd, that she doesn’t seem to find that notion distasteful, Will thinks. “But… “ The woman frowns. Looks at him, pretty, inquisitive eyes blinking owlishly. She seems somehow exasperated and intrigued at the same time. </p><p>“What?” Will snaps irritably. </p><p>Damn, but he finds this Hooper creature distracting. </p><p>From the corner of his eye, he sees Morstan’s smirk; Hooper looks like she’s trying to work out how to say something. “Aren’t you going to try to convince us they’re from the spirit realm?” She asks him. Will scoffs and- a pleasant surprise- she smiles. “I mean… If you’re not going to pretend that a ghost put them inside you then what do you propose they’re doing in your stomach?” She asks. Will opens his mouth, about to answer, then stops. He realises he hasn’t a clue what to say to her. He also realises that he has absolutely no idea how those coins might have gotten inside him, anymore than the coins last night did. From somewhere very old and very far away inside him, he realises that he really should be terrified by what he has just been told. He should be frightened, but he is not. Mykey rises again behind his eyes, that night long ago in France, the sight of his brother when that brother was dying, a thousand miles away. He smells sweat, heat. A summer storm on the air… </p><p><em> There is nothing but the here and now, </em>he tells himself harshly. </p><p>Quite without his willing them to, his fingers reach out, touching the table. Running through the notes of his violin, a soothing, childish habit from long ago. Euri on piano, he on violin as Mummy sings in a corner… </p><p>As soon as he sees Hooper notice this, he pulls his hand back. Folds it forcibly into his lap. </p><p>
  <em> He will not share that with her. He will not share that with <strong>anyone</strong>. </em>
</p><p>“Mr. Holmes,” Morstan is saying, “Mr. Holmes… You genuinely have no idea how those coins got inside you, do you?”</p><p>Dumbly, Will nods. Dumbly, Will waits for the entirely rational, entirely expected fear which that admission should elicit to arrive but it does not. The two women exchange weighted, dark looks, something which pleases Will not one bit. But-</p><p>“Have you any appointments today, Mr. Holmes?” Morstan asks, gathering up her things and fishing in her purse for some coins. She places them on the table, says something fast and complimentary in Italian to the old man behind the counter before turning back to Will. </p><p>“No.” Will tries to summon something else, some other more clever answer, but nothing comes to him. </p><p>He rather suspects, however, that he will not like what Miss Morstan is about to say because if ever he claimed any sort of true clairvoyance, it would be in knowing when trouble was about to arrive. </p><p>It turns out, he is correct. For standing up, both she and Hooper fetch their coats and, in a particularly galling act, hold out his own jacket for him as if he couldn’t be expected to manage it. Everything about their behaviour tells him that they consider their time at Speedy’s finished- for now. “Might we trouble you for your company?” Morstan asks, her tone polite and cheery though her smile doesn’t quite touch her eyes. </p><p>Something about it reminds Will of his late sister. </p><p>“And where do you want me to bring you?” Will asks. </p><p>“To the offices of The Rationalist Society,” Hooper says. “I think our fellows shall want to take a look at you- And I think it might be in your best interests to let them.</p><p>“I fear something is truly wrong with you, Mr. Holmes.”</p><p>Will scoffs, about to deliver some rebuke (which he’s sure will be stinging) but before he can say anything Morstan takes him by the elbow and starts leading him out. Hooper does likewise, her body soft and warm against his own. </p><p>It’s only now that she’s this close that he notices the wedding band upon her finger. </p><p>“Come on,” she says, when she notices him noticing. Suddenly she can’t seem to meet his eyes. “You can be cheeky to us in the taxi-”</p><p>“I can be cheeky to you anywhere.” </p><p>Nevertheless, despite his best intentions Will finds himself being towed out of the tea shop and into a black cab. </p><p>By the time they reach their destination he’s coughing steadily, his chest hacking and sore, but it’s the ring on Hooper’s hand that really bothers him. </p><p>
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